The Long Road
by Tanzy Morrow
Summary: There are always choices to be made after you save the world. Sometimes they are forced on you long after the fact. Freya Crescent discovers the truth of this and starts on her own new story.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own any of them. I make it up as I go along. Final Fantasy IX is spiffy, isn't it?  
  
Author's Note: For my dear Tami because she asked for it. Blame her and then, if you want to read -good- Final Fantasy fanfiction, go and read her work (Guardian1).

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: BEST FOOT FORWARD**  
  
I love him. I love him. I love him. The mantra echoes through my empty head, rattles through my narrow ribcage, presses against my temples like a rocking hammerhead. I love him. I have always loved him. I will always love him.  
  
I repeat the words in time to the beating of my heart, willing the fierce, simple necessity of one to infuse the other. The element of honesty is gone, though, and it has begun to taste like ashes in my mouth. Still I persist and think them again and again. Because if I do not love him, then why did I wander for him? Or did I love him once - yes, I did and I remember the bittersweet tang of it all and I needed to find him more than myself - and then misplace it all when he forgot me?  
  
Love and duty are not supposed to change. They should serve as constants in this world. They saved the world, after all.  
  
I love him. I love him. I love him.  
  
As if thinking and saying and walking through this sweet farce could make it all true once more.

* * *

In the end, it was Fratley who broke the dishonorable silence. Haltingly, he had admitted to unease and false shows. He could not rememeber what she had meant to him, only that she was important. He did not think he would ever remember. He was sorry. He felt great respect for her, yes, and affection but he did not love her. He had hoped that either the feelings would return or grow anew. It had been a long year of waiting, he said quietly, his voice tainted with the gentle, deliberate kindness it always aquired when he was talking to her. As if -she- were the one who had been sick and lost.  
  
She supressed a sharp comment about the length of years. There was no point in being spiteful towards him.  
  
He continued in his slow, careful drone. Explanations, thought processes, details, a nearly shameful need to share the logic behind what he had decided. As she sat there, her face schooled in the non-expression every dragoon learns early in their career, he took her through the long-night mind-rambles that had led to him leaving her. How he would lie beside her in bed and search himself for what he knew he should feel. How he would watch her move quietly around their shared home and try to feel something other than affection and gratitude tinged with loss. He was so very, very careful, she thought wryly. Obviously, he believed that she would become hysterical any minute now. Nowhere was this more clear in the way he kept gently touching her forearm and shoulder, claws on fabric, nothing too intimate but a gesture that seemed to whisper "you're still here, my once love, and none of this is your fault."  
  
The reality of the situation, though, was far more laughable. She sat, watching him, listening to him, and nearly choked to death on relief and guilt. The laughter bubbled up her throat and she closed her hands tightly until she felt her claws prick her palms. It was unreal, a nightmare worse than the ones she woke up from when she had still been searching for him. It was far worse because this is what she wanted.  
  
There was perverse shame in Fratley apologizing for wanting to end their relationship. Worse shame in finding that she was editorializing almost every word from his mouth. With an internal wince, a sharpening of her conscience, she stopped the thoughts. She had once loved the man in front of her; she had once planned to spend her life at his side. As much as that no longer appealed to her, the echoes of what she had once wanted rang hollow in her mind. She did not want him. He did not want her. She should have been the first to say so. It was needlessly cruel to force the empty-minded to make the choice.  
  
It was dishonorable of her and that was something she could no longer live with and still breathe freely. She did not hate him. Yet. She never wanted that day to arrive. It would be worse than the long years where she was forgotten. Tainted memory burned the mind far deeper than the ghosts of the past.  
  
They would part and she could remember it all as it was. The past year would be a bad dream.  
  
Freya raised her head and offered a smile that made her former lover's eyes go wide and his tongue flutter to a stop. "I see," she murmured. "I understand." Then she stood and cut a courtly bow. The motion felt right for all its oddness. "Thank you, Fratley. Thank you for being honest and true and a far better dragoon than I. You truly understand honor. I wish you the best of luck." The smile lingered on her mouth and the other Burmecian shifted uncomfortably; something in his clogged mind stirred and attempted interpretation only to come up with the stunning fact that she meant every word of it and she was not about to crumple, begging, before him. The look on his face conveyed the sudden data failure of his mind and Freya bit back a bitter laugh as she reached out to take his hand. The weight of the decision was lifted from her shoulders and she could afford generosity. "I will move my things tonight," she added gently. As a weak sort of protest rose to his lips, she smiled again. "To the guest room. You needn't worry that you're pitching me out on the street, Fratley."  
  
"But..."  
  
"I think I will travel. It has been too long since I've seen the outside of Burmecia. I am an old wanderer, a soldier, Fratley. I don't take root very well, it seems." She squeezed his hand and, for the first time in months, it did not feel as if she were squeezing her own heart. Yet it was hard to keep her voice soft and the words weighed for his pride. "Don't look so miserable, my old love. We tried our best but things changed. We aren't the same anymore."  
  
Freya pulled herself up short and released his hand, drawing herself straight and tall, and once more the strange smile was given to him. "Thank you again. I will go and see to my things."  
  
It took every ounce of her training to not sprint to the task and, for that, the guilt strangled her again.  
  
Fratley stood and watched her go, head tilted to one side, tail beating an uneven tattoo on the floor. "Oh, Freya," he sighed. "I -am- sorry."

* * *

Despite being a hero and being a favorite of the king, Freya discovered that she had very few possessions spread throughout the house. Few possessions that she felt the need to pack, that is. There were so many things that meant nothing to her, that symbolized nothing. Her weapon - just another limb and part of her. Her worn bedroll - still smelling of campfires and desert air. The assortment of bags to hang from her belt - neat and tidy, preserved in perfection from the old travels. Her old coat - patched and tired and far less appropriate for a hero than her newer, finer coat. She would take them all. She had to travel light, after all. It was a long way to... Wherever she was going.  
  
Freya paused over her bags and stared off into space. Where -was- she going? Lindblum? Treno? Alexandria? She sank to perch on the edge of the bed and worried the hem of her tunic. If she was brutally honest, the real question was not where to go so much as who to see. She did not doubt Fratley's honor and knew that he would be forever delicate about their parting. She wouldn't be running into pitying looks and whispers. Chances rested on her side that no one would know unless they asked.  
  
Was she ready to be asked? Probably not. Would she be asked? Of course. If she went to Alexandria.  
  
Standing, the dragoon half-laughed and once more set to packing her meager possessions. The list in her head was adapted to carrying rations for a few weeks and plenty of tea bags. Fussy, she checked the wrappings around her precioud teapot. She had a distance to walk.  
  
She would go to Alexandria to see the Queen.  
  
She smiled faintly and reached for her coat and helmet. How childish it sounded, really. A faint hum escaped her, a tuneless sound with a bouncing rhythm. Going to town to see the Queen, what will you do there, what will you see... Shrugging into her coat, Freya adjusted it with an inborn precision, smoothing lapels and straightening the hang of the panels. The old cloth felt sweet and familiar and she caught herself smiling again. It was amazing what making a decision could do for your temper, she thought.  
  
Pike to her shoulder, helmet firmly set in place, Freya started towards the door and the road. She hesitated on the threshhold, though. Silently, she brought her tail around her, tip wiggling at her sudden turn of thoughts. She stared at the ragged strip of yellow cloth wound about it. Fratley. The past. Memories.  
  
With a faint sigh, she set down her things and deftly picked out the knot.  
  
If she was going to make a fresh start, she must do it properly.  
  
Freya Crescent walked out the door with her things, starting on the long road to Alexandria. A tattered strip of sunshine yellow lay across the doorstep.


	2. And Then There Were 2

Fishing a few escaped leaves from the bottom of her tea cup - was there future to be found in them, bah - Freya lifted her chin to study the clear dusky sky above, serving as roof and shelter that night in her travels. She had been walking for weeks now and, though it felt like months, she fancied she could still smell the mist-clogged, moss-living stones of her birth country. Why did it never seem to rain anywhere but Burmecia? Why did it never seem to rain but when she was with Fratley? She could not remember a single rainfall during the months she traveled with the others in a rush to stop the world from ending. Perhaps, though, she simply could not remember the rain amidst everything else that happened.

After all, there had been other things on her mind then. Between the battles, time compressed into periods of sleep and periods of bare-awareness. Idle thought had been a luxury no one felt inclined to court. The nearest she had let herself come to anything unrelated to simple survival had fallen under Fratley's banner. She almost laughed as the irony of the situation hit her wandering mind. Suddenly, she had all of the time in the world to think whatever she liked - why the sky was blue, if Moogles could maintain an attention span, where the spirit went when you died - and yet she could think of nothing now without her thoughts wandering down rutted roads and her knuckles turning white with the pressure of her fingers around her pike.

There was no more Fratley's banner. She, Freya Crescent, had removed herself from the life she had sworn to find. If it weren't so pathetic, she would laugh. A knight without a flag under which to fight stood as the most ridiculous, meaningless symbol in the entire world.

No flag. No banner. Just her.

As Freya blew over the surface of her tea, cooling the strong brew with her breath, she half-closed her eyes. For a moment, she repeated the thought in her mind. Just her. Only her. Responsible to none, guarding her thoughts from none, she no longer needed to kneel or curb her tongue out of concern for those who were not as calloused as her. If she liked, she could stand tall in the clearing and scream at the top of her lungs. She was no longer a hero, no longer a kingdom-rebuilder, no longer a near-martyr to the world. It felt incredibly freeing.

The air moved easier through her lungs with every step away from her home country, she thought. The damp and moss-smell of Burmecia retreated to be replaced by new fragrances - pine needles now that her steps had turned north. Crushed pine needles and crisp fresh air and a smell that she had nearly forgotten during the past year, the smell of sunshine on drying grasses. Everywhere she looked, the world ripened, full of promises-kept and living colors. Green and gold and red. When she closed her eyes, though, she still saw the misty greens and grays of her home. Distance, it turned out, was kinder to the place the less it echoed with Fratley and false lives.

She hoped he was happier now, free to forget without guilt and finding someone more suited for him as he was now. She certainly felt lighter on her feet. It no longer felt like penance to think on her once-love. Thoughts touching on him only left a bittersweet taint. Perhaps she would write him from Alexandria. Perhaps she would...

Then she burned her lips on her tea thoughtlessly and dropped the cup, scalding water falling over fingers and thighs. "Bloody _hell_."

Perhaps there was a reason that idle thinking remained a luxury for those like her.

By the time she had reached a town that appeared to boast more than one tavern, thus giving her a choice, Freya found herself surprisingly ready for interaction again, perhaps even a level of actual companionship. She was even more ready for a warm fire and a place to ring out her sopping coat. So much for her theory that it only rained in Burmecia.

The storm had come upon her with the setting of the sun and the lighting of the first lamps in the windows and only the appearance of a more-than-convenient inn and its sagging porch roof kept her from a sudden, total soaking. Standing beneath the structure and watching the heavy rain slip noisily from clogged guttering, Freya reflected on her options as she absently squeezed out a corner of her heavy coat. Option one, she could remain where she was, go through the door of the inn, engage a room, and settle down for the night. Option two, she could brave the elements and search out the other inns in the town and then proceed in the same manner upon finding one to her liking. She pulled off her hat and studied the brim for a moment before reaching up to sweep neat claws through her tumbled silver hair and then replacing the hat with a damp squelch.

Option one held charm for its simplicity and convenience. Her body certainly begged for somewhere dry and warm and preferred it be delivered as soon as possible. On the other hand, option two might promise more luxuries above and beyond simple dryness and warmth. With an eye long ago trained to judging rain speed and density, Freya peered out into the darkness. Then she turned to assess the tavern under whose porch she had taken shelter. It certainly did not appear to be the best of establishments, probably the reason it was on the outskirts of the town; anyone with more time and money would naturally move towards the town center if spending a night. Cocking her head, she listened to the uneasy silence of the building - no revelers, no chatter, not even the voice of the innkeeper berating a servant. Then she turned her gaze to the grimy windows and the sagging door in its frame.

Perhaps it would be worth it to brave the elements once more after all.

Shrugging her narrow shoulders to adjust the lay of her coat, Freya reached up to check the safety of her knapsack. Then she crammed her hands into her pockets, ducked her head, and stepped out into the rain once more. She was Burmecian. A little more rain would not kill her.

Though it might very well try to drown her, she reflected as she squelched her way down the main road, the weight of her pack and pike hanging heavy and awkward against her back. Mud bubbled up at every step, oozing between her toes, and she grimaced beneath the brim of her hat. There was something unwholesome about the mud here. Different from the mud of Burmecia which was so thoroughly washed that it had practically ceased being mud and was nearly elevated to a form of liquid earth, the missing state of being. This mud featured rocks and bits of sticks and, at one point, she fancied that she felt the rough edge of a broken dagger hilt. That would be a lovely end to the night, she mused grimly, hobbling into a hotel with an infected gash in her foot. Then she could stay even longer and truly enjoy the neighborhood.

A warm-burning lantern caught her attention as she neared the center of town, however, a beacon in the dark night.

She smiled to herself. Not far at all. It had been a good gamble. On approach, the new inn shone with welcome, tidy even in the miserable weather and radiating an aura of warmth. Her step became an energy-efficient trot, too smooth even to splash mud or water. Finally, she thought. Bath, bed, food - not necessarily in that order, of course.

As her foot touched the planed boards of the porch, though, her belief in a blessing shattered in time with the inn's front door. Without thinking, Freya leapt nimbly to one side, automatically avoiding the bulky unconscious form now decorating the porch. "Bloody hell," she breathed. And the place had looked so nice, so snug and comfortable and respectable. With more hope than sense, she put her hand to the doorjamb and stepped around splinters to enter.

If anything, the inside was worse than the flying body had indicated.

A knot of bodies surged in one corner, accompanied by the sound of breaking wood. Limbs flailed and, in response to obvious hits, curses peppered the air. Freya pursed her lips and stepped off to one side, watching. Perhaps she had not fully left her roots behind in Burmecia, after all; her fingers itched to knock sense into heads. She was tired and wet and hungry. She was in no mood to leave and find a new inn. No mood at all. She caught herself grinding her teeth and closed her eyes for a moment. None of this had anything to do with her, she reminded herself. Whoever the idiot was in the thick of the mess – and it was clearly one against many, judging by the curses and movement in the crowd – he was entirely to blame for his own misery. She only desired a place to rest and tidy herself. Perhaps even a bit of quiet so she could plot her next destination. She did not want to think too deeply – it always led to trouble – but she needed some sort of return. She had been away from other people for far too long and she had long ago vowed to never revisit the days of self-pitying isolation. No more antisocial behavior. No more letting the world rub over her as if she were a rasp out to make everything thin. She needed to let her emotions blend with the others, seep out and leave her. She only asked for a bit of quiet and the chance to absorb the warm, quiet presence of others in the night, sleeping and harmless.

A glass shattered a bare twelve inches from her ear.

Slowly, Freya lowered her pack to the floor. Then she crouched, checked the knots and buckles, and patted it almost fondly. Standing once more, she ran her hands over her pockets, eyes focused on some middle distance. A small cast iron teapot was retrieved, a bag of precious leaves, a tinder box, utensils. All of it found a temporary home atop the pack. Next, her hat. Then she reached behind her and methodically unwound the bindings from her pike.

Moments later, three burly men were scampering back towards the door, holding various parts of the bodies. One paused, moved to speak, and merely yelped and pelted out into the rain as Freya spared a look over her shoulder, cold green-eyed distaste. Her back thus protected, she refocused her strained fury back to the task at hand. A hand lashed out to catch another man in the stomach. As he doubled over, she flowed closer and delivered an uppercut to his chin, laying him out. Spinning, she raked her claws over the face of another, her pike held parallel to the floor and used to keep the others away. Even as she caught another man with a vicious (and admittedly uncalled for) knee to the groin, she asked herself why she was reacting so badly. Had she gone mad out there in the woods with no company? Solitude had never bothered her before. Had the events of the past few years changed her so that being alone could drive her to insensibility?

Gritting her teeth with a faint snarl, she turned in a graceful arc and stomped on an instep, following through with another punch. Feeling the man's cheekbone against her small knuckles, she decided that, no, she was merely far too tired to deal with idiots and idiots were all too common at the moment. She pushed the man out of her way.

Suddenly, everything went quiet and still and she stared with wide eyes at the center of the storm. Stupidly, she brushed fingers across her face, rearranging the rain-dampened strands of silver that clung there. She felt her jaw go slack and it was only the flicker of annoyance at such idiocy that pushed the words past her lips.

"Amarant."

She felt the equal shock in his own gaze land heavy on her even without seeing his eyes. "Freya?" he rumbled. "What the fuck are you...?" Before he could finish what was undoubtedly slated to be a classic reintroduction line, he toppled forwards with about as much grace as a felled tree. Instinctive, she sidestepped and lashed her pike out and forward in a deadly sweep, catching his assailant across the stomach to leave a thin, shallow line of red. Amarant grunted and rolled to the side to avoid her quickly dancing feet. Just like old times. He took the low road while she took the high. Without needing a cue, he reached out to grab at a pair of ankles, jerking back and up and being rewarded with a shout and a heavy thump.

Freya barely even looked his way again, too busy dealing with her own fights. She had no need to check him. From the instant recognition set in, her objective had swung from offense to defense. Whatever else he was, Amarant was ally and fighter. Sparing moments worrying about him was as productive as digging wells in Burmecia. An opponent's lucky shot caught her wrist and Freya whirled, other hand lashing out whip claws against his face. He went down with a whimper. No more thinking. It was only distraction.

Suddenly, she felt the warm bulk of him against her back and pressed a step back into him. He did not shift. Panting slightly, she looked around at the empty room. So much for a warm, dry, sweet little inn. Chairs and tables lay everywhere, splintered beyond recognition. One or two men lay in unconscious heaps. Glasses shattered, plates spilled. She felt him inhaled deeply behind her, a rough noise that sounded vaguely like pride and satisfaction. Her fingers tightened on her weapon and she spun, the length of her pike snapping into the man behind her sharply in childish fury. "You great, big, hulking idiot!" she hissed. "Look what you've done. You've ruined it. There is no way I can stay here now."

Surprised, Amarant stumbled back a few steps and brought his hands up to push the pike away. He stared at her through his curtain of flame-red hair. "What?" he rumbled back at her. "What the hell are you talking about? No one asked you to stick your pointy nose in."

She sent her foot out in an abrupt kick at his shins and, quite suddenly, quite inexplicably, she then began laughing. Laughing so hard that tears formed and she lost her newly-regained breath. Dropping her pike, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and rocked. Her hair cloaked her face, damp and stringy bits of silver against moon-pale skin. Amarant watched her narrowly and kept his distance until the gales of laughter tapered off into inane giggles. Then, carefully, he prodded at her narrow shoulder with one thick finger. "Lost your mind, huh?" he asked conversationally.

"Indeed." Running a hand over her face, Freya sobered and glanced up at her old companion. "Give me a moment and I shall find it again." With that, she inhaled slowly and shook her head before crouching to reclaim her weapon from the floor. Absently, she began setting her coat and hair to rights the moment she stood, the pike grounded on the floor and resting back against her shoulder. Only then did she meet his eyes. "There we go," she said mildly. "I see you're up to your usual charming ways. What was it this time? And are we about to be run out of town for this little bit of exercise?"

He honestly seemed to consider his answers for a moment, head ducking a bit. Finally, he snorted. "They thought the bounty was still on my head. Had to persuade 'em otherwise," he answered. "Though I reckon we might want to leave. Even if they don't have the balls to kick us out."

"Idiot," she sighed. "You do know that it's pouring rain out there, correct? I would not expect you to know that I am tired and hungry and long for a hot bath but rain? Certainly that should be in your realm of observation."

Amarant shrugged and it was like a mountain moving. The fluidity of his fighting was gone now and he moved at his own pace, that of a great beast reserving its energy. "Thought you liked rain. Ain't that what you've got back in Burmecia? With Sir Whatshisname?" Suddenly, he paused and a deep frown etched itself into his expression. "He outside?"

Freya drew herself up straight, momentary looseness gone. Something had grown in that heartbeat, something leaden and cold in her stomach, and she wished it away heartily. Why could the dratted monk never know when to avoid a subject? "Sir _Fratley_ is in Burmecia," she answered coolly. "As for the rain, even we rats have enough sense to come in out of it when we have had enough. I have certainly had enough." She looked to the right and spotted the innkeeper, hovering in a doorway, looking exceedingly worried. Shouldering her pike, she picked her way over to him and bowed low. "Forgive me, sir," she said. "I reacted instinctively. Allow me to pay something towards the cost of replacing the damaged property?"

The man hesitated, eyes darting back and forth. Then he chanced to notice Amarant watching him from over the Burmecian's shoulder – glowering, actually – and he nodded fiercely. "Of course. Of course. It happens all of the time, miss." He nearly hiccupped in his rush to be seen as cooperative and genial. "In fact, I could not help but overhear. You're looking for a bed and rest for the night? Yes?" His mouth twisted in an ingratiating smile. "We have vacancies and my wife is an excellent cook. We would be honored if you stayed here." He tried for a little bow and was rewarded with a small handful of gil put directly in his line of vision. This time, the smile was rather more believable as he straightened. "And your friend?"

"My _friend_ can do as he likes." Freya again bowed before slipping the gil into the man's hand and turning on her heel. Crossing the room, she gathered up her things. "Upstairs?" she asked politely.

"And to the right. First door… Miss."

As soon as she disappeared up the stairs, Amarant frowned. The innkeeper shot him a worried look. Snorting at the obviousness of the expression, the stocky man strode across the room, slammed down a couple gil, glared through his dreadlocks, and then likewise retreated to the second floor. With a faint whimper, the innkeeper sank onto a miraculously unbroken stool and began his nightly devotions early.

As if in apology for the previous day, the sun rose bright and glorious the next morning. A crisp chill was in the air and Freya reluctantly pulled on her red coat again as she stood on the porch of the inn. Tilting her head back and closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. Everything smelled fresh and clean, too. Including herself.

Despite hearing Amarant trudging around the room next door – why had he stayed, the great lummox? – she had risked the trek to the communal bathroom and set about nearly drowning herself in the surprisingly decent bathtub. Every inch of her had been scrubbed, water taking away muck and mire and a weariness that was bone-deep. She had then managed to sleep, after a fashion. A stout breakfast also aided to her improved mood. Absently, she whistled an old lullaby under her breath as she buttoned up her coat and then reached up to smooth her hair.

Then, quite suddenly, he was there beside her on the porch, in the golden new sunshine, and she closed her eyes. "And what do you want, Amarant?" she murmured.

"Huh. No more idiot?" he answered back lowly, totally ignoring her question. "All that damn bathing must've sweetened your mood up. How'd you sleep?"

She sighed and forgave him for his dagger-wound the night before and allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch upwards. "Well enough, considering I had your landslide snore in the room beside me."

Amarant snickered and folded his arms over his broad chest, leaning against one of the porch's pillars. From behind his mass of bright hair, he studied her carefully. The silence lingered companionably for long moments and he watched the line of her back ease minutely and almost laughed again as she began fixing her hair again. "You're awfully prissy for a knight, y'know," he suddenly pointed out.

"I would ask how you know so much about my state of hygiene," she returned mildly, "but I truly believe the answer would require me to kill you. Consider this my treat to you."

He gave her another snicker for her response and slouched further back into the pillar. "How long you been traveling?"

Freya kept her gaze out at the sunlight on the changing leaves and the drying earth and answered with a faint shrug. "Why were you fighting last night?"

"Movin' on today?"

"Did someone insult your claw again?"

"Why d'ya keep answerin' me with more damn questions?"

She turned finally and smiled straight into his grimacing face. That, at least, was familiar. "Because it angers you to the point of hilarity, of course," she replied with a little laugh. She moved one clawed hand to rest on another pillar and she half-leaned into it, head tilted to study him. The expression on her face spoke of serious mental gymnastics. After a moment, she relaxed it and again smiled. "It is good to see you, Amarant. Despite yourself."

He merely grunted in response and shrugged, arms never moving from their lock across his chest. "You leavin' this morning?"

"Yes." She motioned behind her to a neat stack of her belongings. "Right now, as a matter of fact. Why?" She pushed herself away from the pillar and padded over to her things. Crouching, she double-checked all fastenings. She would not risk hoping but there was a chance he could be goaded into things. No matter what, however, she needed to shoot at least one arrow in that direction. It had been the only thought that had finally settled her mind to sleep the night before. Seeing him had jarred a few things loose inside her head and only promising to try had let them flutter back into place. "Would you like to join me in a walk?"

"Fat chance. Why would I wanna do something like that?"

"Just so." She stood and swung her pack up onto her shoulders, settling the weight with an expert shrug. Then she smiled and resettled her hat atop her head. The smile immediately went into eclipse. One try, no pleading. If her head had decided to miss him for some uncanny reason, so be it. They might meet again. Besides, it might very well just be general loneliness. "Well, Amarant," she announced, "I'll be leaving then. Do take care of yourself and try not to ruin any more inns. I can't say for certain that I will show up and save you."

"Go fall on your toothpick and die."

Freya waved merrily as she stepped from the porch. "I think I'll go west," she said lightly. "Sunsets are lovely." At his grunt, she laughed again, shouldered her pike, and set off at a swinging pace towards the edge of town.

He did not catch up until she had reached the tree line of the surrounding forest. "What would you want to have me along for?" he asked in a low growl.

"I don't know, really," she admitted. "Comedic relief?"

He trod heavily at her side and shook his head. A leaf, nearly the same blazing shade, fell from the dreadlocks at the motion. "You're crazy."

She hummed vague assent, skirting a fallen log. "And yet here you are."

That brought him to a crashing halt. "Yeah. Go figure." He lowered himself to the log she had avoided and proceeded to make himself comfortable. Stretching noisily, he squirmed until he was well-balanced and then leaned back, closing his eyes. "Take care, Crescent," he called after her. "Don't get your tail caught in a door or anything."

She did not deign to answer, merely continued walking. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty…

"Goddammit" came a distant mutter, carried on the drifting breeze.

"Hell's bells," Freya returned evenly. Then she shook her head, slightly exasperated, not pausing as she walked. After one hundred paces, though, she had to smile. His heavy feet crushed defenseless greenery as he moved to join her, eschewing his usual uncanny stealth as if to say she was not worth the effort.

He forgot she knew him. She knew that such noise was more trouble for him than silence and so she smiled, trusting to the brim of her hat to hide the expression from her companion.

How easy it was to fall back into step with Amarant. How much of a relief. Amarant was nothing like a Burmecian and, for that, Freya found herself uncommonly, uncomfortably grateful.


End file.
